Two and a Half Years
by InspireTheFire
Summary: John Watson's therapist discovers that John has been texting Sherlock for two and a half years after the Reichenbach Fall. Angst ensues. I'm not a writer by nature, so this will most likely have a lot of mistakes! Feel free to review and criticize! Rating may go up for violence and language later.
1. Chapter 1

"John? John, eyes on me," a woman's voice cut through the still air professionally and coolly, though there was a soft kindness behind the words. The carefully groomed lady crossed her legs and raised one eyebrow surreptitiously at her patient, the war veteran Dr. John H. Watson, whose languid expression and distant eyes barely acknowledged his posh surroundings.

"Dr. Watson, I need you to keep your focus and talk to me. It's important to help you through this," she pronounced each word clearly, pausing audibly as if by speaking slower her words would seep into the withdrawn mind of John. The weary doctor heard someone speaking; or, _did _he? A soft hand touching his knee snapped his attention back to the present: _therapy sessions, right, of course. _

"It's been two and a half years, John. Do you not have anything to say? At all?" John cleared his throat and morosely stared out the immense window to his left; it was raining, just like the day John died. Well, metaphorically at least. John's mind plagued him with the same haunting image whenever he was reminded of that dreadful, unexplainable day. He saw his… best friend, holding his hand out towards him, his words echoing like distant thunder inside John's head, _"Eyes on me, John…" _

John bit his lip and his eyes eventually focused onto the attractive and welcoming face of his therapist; he finally relented to her implorations and sodding coercing, albeit reluctantly and annoyed.

"I miss the body parts."

John smirked inwardly when his remark caused his therapist a startle, and she gave him an askance look. He must have forgotten to tell her about his friend's "experiments." He continued poking at the subject, oddly amused by the reaction he provoked.

"I mean, the eyes in the microwave might have been a bit much, I confess, but it's sad when I open the refrigerator and don't find some stray fingers or a disembodied head…" John twiddled his fingers innocently and looked into his therapist's eyes from his own tired ones. Although messing with her was enjoyable to say the least, he was weary of this woman and her imploring, ignorant questions and assumptions. The doctor remembered her remarking that John would be better after a year. _"The first year's always the worst."_ John knew better; he spent his entire life searching for a purpose (he even became an army doctor for goodness's sake!), and when he finally found one it was torn away from him, leaving him alone, worthless, friendless. _Though_, he supposed, _it wasn't the purpose he missed; it was the person. _

Throwing her hands up in a display of unabashed hopelessness, John's therapist yielded and strategically decided to change the subject.

"How is Mrs. Hudson, your landlady was she?" John's eyes lifted and he straightened his posture slightly; he freely opened up when asked about Mrs. Hudson. At least they weren't talking about him anymore.

"She's doing well. She's glad she doesn't have to deal with bullet holes in the wall anymore. Or experiments seeping through the floors onto the flats below. I think she's taking it well enough. I also think she mentioned something about some bloke wanting to rent 221c. Bless her, another bohemian to deal with…"

"You care about her deeply."

"Well, yeah, of course. She's like a mother to us-"John stopped speaking abruptly; his voice hitched in is throat. He never meant to, but he caught himself occasionally speaking as though… _he_, was still alive. Still with him. He groaned silently and rubbed his thumbs into his eyes, instinctively trying to cover his face, like the childish saying _if I can't see you, you can't see me. _He was not going to get out of this one so easily.

"John, you treat the situation as though your friend is still alive. It's not healthy. You of all people should know that. John, you need to find closure, or this is going to get worse. You cannot keep living in a lie; you can't keep Sherlock alive in your mind."

The doctor physically flinched at the sound of Sherlock Holmes' name. His heart began to race and he felt sweat droplets forming at the back of his neck. John hadn't said the detective's name since a week after Sherlock's funeral. He had refused to. Everything about Sherlock: his name, scent, belongings; it all stabbed at John's deepest core and reminded him of the hurt and pain he endured. There was a reason the doctor never went on his blog anymore; he didn't want to see the comments Sherlock left, telling him to _focus on the deductions, John!_ They filled him with guilt, regret. _Could I have done something differently? Could I have stopped it? Or at least let him know I cared. He always thought no one cared. That selfish, cold bastard never knew I believed- and still believe- in him. _

"Well, at least we coaxed one thing out today. That's more than we usually get. John, look, I want you to go back to Baker Street after we're done, go through Mr. Holmes' belongings, remember the good memories that came with those, and then let them go," the therapist scribbled on her yellow notepad, hand clutching at the clipboard. John's mouth formed a thin line and his brow crinkled_. _How could he just… let those things go?_ What did she really mean? There is no way he's throwing out the skull. Or the Persian slipper. And definitely not the hat. _

"No. I'm not doing that. Never. You might as well be… asking me to throw him out, throw him out like he's, trash, or a joke, or a fake! I won't betray him like everyone else in this damn city!" John swallowed roughly and his voice rose unsteadily, anger swelling inside his lower stomach, desperate to erupt like a volcano that had been dormant for too long.

"Dr. Watson, if you're not ready yet then-"

"Oh, sod off! You don't know what you're talking about! Mycroft was right; you've got everything backwards," John stood from the green leather chair and gave a frustrated huff, his fists clenched defensively while his posture adopted the stance he learned during his time served in the army. The therapist calmly leaned into the back of her own chair, bracing herself and trying to ignore the uncharacteristically harsh words from her patient. She almost looked like she was going to cry. The doctor immediately abandoned his belligerent demeanor and he stepped back, awkwardly shifting his weight and rubbing his thumb against the side of his pointer finger. He opened his mouth as if to apologize, but he changed his mind quickly and muttered incoherently, "I- I'll just, leave, then."

John's therapist nodded graciously, relieved he would be going and taking this unbearable tension with him. She tentatively handed John the suggestions she inscribed onto her notes and diverted her eyes to the wall which suddenly became immensely interesting. John hesitated for only a moment, crumpled the paper into his coat pocket, then nodded forcefully and began to make his way across the cozy little room to the door leading to reality and work and loneliness. The doctor's hand reached for the golden handle of the door when he was suddenly stopped.

"Dr. Watson, you almost left your phone."

John's eyes widened fearfully and he whipped around clumsily, desperate to retrieve his phone before… _oh, shit. _

John's therapist held the phone inches away from her, and a disturbed and sorrowful expression swept across her face. She trembled ever so slightly, as though she was afraid to confront John after his outburst, but she straightened her back anyway and strode closer to John, presenting the screen of John's phone to him.

"John, you've been texting Sherlock for two and a half years after he died."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I don't really like this chapter. I have no idea why, but I hope all you lovely people enjoy it! I'm really bad at making up plots, so this is what my mind is basically capable of. Sorry for the long wait, I've been way too busy with school, and essays, and life. Thanks for all the favs and follows! :D

London's evening sky was blanketed with a fine layer of wispy mist, seeping through the air to the damp ground below with long, skeletal fingers. The rain had subsided but its effects still lingered in the humid air, the slick and busy streets, and the splashing feet of languid pedestrians on the sidewalks. Life was proceeding normally in London. Cars were busy winding their ways through the maze of streets, shops attended to the requests of their customers, and people strolling through the park folded their umbrellas and replaced them with the hands of their loved ones.

"What the f- Watch where you're going, idiot!" a burly man spat bitterly and shook his fist at the smaller man that had bumped into his shoulder and made him drop his coffee on the soggy sidewalk. He grumbled something incoherently about rudeness, missing the other man's quick but sincere apology. The brawny man peered at the disappearing figure while stooping to pick up his coffee cup, then his brow furrowed and he whispered to himself, "Isn't that that crazy internet blogger? Wonder what hole he crawled out of."

John Watson quickened his pace to escape the judgmental eyes of the witnesses who had seen him blindly slam into that rather intimidating guy. He sighed loudly and shoved his fists into his coat pockets in an attempt to keep them from freezing. Determined to find an oasis in the mob of the mundane people surrounding him, John headed towards a lonely park bench. His mind raced and buzzed inside his head with a million different thoughts and emotions; he needed to take a step back and analyze his current situation. Ignoring the patronizing pointing fingers of the more internet-savvy individuals of the population, Dr. Watson treaded through the sloshy grass on his way to a cold, ornate bench, decorated with rain droplets, situated right under an impressive, ancient looking tree. It wasn't until John sat down and acknowledged his surroundings that he realized he was in the park where he met Mike Stamford, the very man who introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.

_Yeah, Watson, you're a _real_ lady's man. _John grimaced and buried his face in his rough hands, the events that occurred only moments ago replaying like a scratched record inside his head. After finding himself suddenly exposed and weak kneed when his psychotherapist discovered his rather personal secret, John silently took the phone from her hand, pocketed it, and escaped through the door before she could mutter one word. He couldn't remember much of what happened after that; he wasn't all there, mentally. His body moved subconsciously, carrying him wherever it wished. His eyes couldn't focus, as though he were in a waking dream, where the details of his surroundings blended and morphed together. He couldn't recall how he got to where he was.

Watson had just begun to recover emotionally and the trembling feeling in his legs subsided when a sudden buzz in his pocket snapped his attention to the object of his torment.

"Who-?" John asked himself as his fingers danced around the smooth case of his phone. The abrupt distraction averted all his negative thoughts for a moment and he played a guessing game with himself on who the unknown texter could be.

_I doubt Mycroft would be texting me, he usually just calls; not like he ever does anymore. So cross him out. Lestrade has no use for me. It's probably Ms. Hudson, wondering where I am. God I hope it's not… therapist lady. _Satisfied with his _brilliant deduction, _John took out his phone and turned the screen on with a press of a button. His disposition fell and his breath faltered when he saw that the screen had not been changed since his confrontation with his therapist. John's unwanted guilt, remorse, and embarrassment stared mockingly bright at him, and his eyes couldn't help but read the last text he had sent to Sherlock.

**I hate these therapy sessions. Where's a good murder when you need one, right?**

** JW**

He had only sent it that very morning. It had become his daily routine: wake up, text Sherlock, get ready, go to work, text Sherlock, go home, text Sherlock, watch the news, text Sherlock, get ready for bed, text Sherlock, and go to sleep. John never received a reply, but he had somehow convinced himself to keep up this charade on his mobile. It was as though to John, if he kept texting Sherlock, that part of his best friend wouldn't die. It was the only thing John had control over in an uncontrollable world.

John sighed deeply and watched his breath dissipate in the frigid air. His hands still caressed his phone as though it held the very soul of his best friend. He bit the inside of his lower lip and forced himself to look back at his phone. Quickly backing out of his one-sided texts with Sherlock, he checked his other messages.

**Where r u? you've been gone too long dear. Hurry home. Its ms Hudson by the way x**

John grinned at the way Ms. Hudson felt the need to address herself in her texts; he would have to tell her about contact names later. He thought he already did, but perhaps the poor old woman had just forgotten. Worried about worrying her, John stood and stretched his legs before heading towards the nearest street to call for a cab.

"221 Baker Street, please" John rubbed his freezing hands together and shifted around in the back seat of the cab, trying to get comfortable, but this was in vain. John couldn't help but feel unusually nervous in this particular cab. Maybe it was the eerie skull decoration hanging from the rear view mirror, or the way the driver hunched over the steering wheel like he was a lion stalking its prey, but John sat silently, staring ahead and trying not to assume he was being driven around by a serial killer. Ever since Sherlock… went away, John had no trouble with murderers, or kidnappers, or even Mycroft's 'friendly' house calls. He was probably just over thinking this anyways. _Nothing ever happens to me. Nothing will ever again. _

"Have a _killer_ evening, sir" the cab driver chuckled menacingly, knowingly, at the edgy doctor as John thanked him and stepped out in front of Baker Street. The hair on John's head suddenly felt like it was being pulled upwards by the stars in the solemn night sky. He closed the door and watched the cab drive off, wondering silently what the driver had meant by his diction. Mentally shrugging it off and assuming the guy was just a creep with a morbid amusement in scaring people, John turned on his heel and headed towards the familiar but loathed door of 221 Baker Street. As soon as he turned the handle and set a foot inside the cozy building, John was aware that something was amiss. Something was wrong.

"Ms. Hudson? Ms. Hudson! Where are you?" dashing to the top of the stairs as quickly as his legs would allow him, John burst into his flat with such a force the walls shook. His heart slowed down and he breathed deeply when he saw Ms. Hudson, with a rather confused and startled expression on her face, busily throwing away rotten food from John's refrigerator.

"Oh, dear, did I throw away something you wanted to keep? I'm terribly sorry, dear, but… Now, why do you look so rattled?" Ms. Hudson gingerly placed a wrinkled hand on John's forehead, concern evident on her face. John swallowed and shook his head, pulling Ms. Hudson's hand away and wrapping her in his own arms in a tight embrace.

"Oh! John, what's gotten over you?"

"Nothing, I just… Sorry about making you worried. Need some help with that?" John pulled away from the hug and pointed at the inedible food in his refrigerator. Without being given permission, John began to stuff old containers of spoiled beans and moldy cheese into a trash bag. Smiling, he thanked Ms. Hudson and told her he could handle it from here. He watched her leave, and then John slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, head in his hands. He cursed his mind for tricking him into believing something was wrong, but the more he thought about it, the more he wished there had been something- anything- just to prove he wasn't paranoid.

Peering out of the slits between his fingers, the army doctor noticed something peculiar about the window across the room from him. Cautiously he crept towards it, and upon further inspection, he found that the lock on the window was not, in fact, locked. _Strange, that. I never open these windows. _John switched the lock to say "locked" and threw himself on the couch face first, not letting the incident bother him. _Ms. Hudson probably was just cleaning it or something. _

As sleep possessed John Watson and took him away to the place where fantasies become reality, he didn't notice a gloved hand silently, almost ghostly, press against the window and then disappear into the peaceful night.


	3. Chapter 25

**Finally I got around to updating this! It's been too long, and too busy. As always I appreciate any view, review, favourite, or follow! :D Just knowing someone out there enjoys my silly writing, I'm happy. This is a short update, I know, but don't fret! Chapter 3 is already being written. Enjoy! **

A lonely figure pushed a gloved hand away from a closed, thick window. The phantom's movements could only be seen, not heard, as it swooped in a single graceful, cat-like curve from the waning hanging window garden where the apparition had been preforming its mysterious business. The ghost's long flowing cloak shielded its face and provided effective cover against London's black sky; the strange angles and tattered edges of the fabric proved to be an exemplary guise surrounded by the singular architecture of the building it was swiftly departing. Although the robe concealed any recognition of the phantom's face, the lean yet sturdy and strong build was clear enough to any possible passerby's that the figure was a man.

The ethereal man's feet tapped the ground as he gave a final leap from his perch. He prowled from his hiding spot behind the conveniently placed rubbish cans and worn cardboard boxes decorating the narrow abandoned alley way behind 221 Baker Street. The hooded man seemed pleased- or rather, ecstatic- and he clutched to an unidentified object and pranced gleefully, twirling and stopping abruptly, mind already set on his future tasks. He scowled gratuitously, mood snapping in an instance, and darted towards the open street, eyes searching frantically but meticulously in the swarm of cars and cabs.

"Did you get it?" a gruff voice whispered (if you could call such a rough sound a whisper) discreetly into the ear of the hooded man. As though the other man had materialized from the very air itself, two men now stood casually at the corner of the sidewalk instead of one.

"Of course, you ponce. I'm more than capable of handling myself in that flat. Now take this and do what I paid you to, Michael, if you will" the hooded man's silky voice swam through the air as he handed the other man the object of their desire.

"But you haven't paid m-"

"Does it sound like I care right now? Find me in four days and six hours exactly at our spot. I have work to do."

Before the other man, Michael apparently, had a chance to argue about his payment, his 'business partner' had disappeared into the sea of bustling, mundane faces. Exasperated, the burly man shoved the item into his brown coat and set off to his own responsibilities.

A block away the hooded man had become the hood-less man as he skillfully scurried up the side of an abandoned, old Victorian-style building. His head and face now exposed to the crippling chill of the night, he popped into an open though shattered window into a room four stories from the ground. With a sigh that hinted at a heart filled with sorrow and guilt, the lean man stalked to the middle of the debauched room on his long legs and sat down, legs crisscrossed. His cloak slipped easily from his angular shoulders and he produced a scarf from its pocket and wrapped it around his neck tightly. He ran bruised fingers on a particular spot on the floor, precious but morose memories flooding back to him.

"Do you remember?" he whispered, barely audible to his own ears.

"'Extraordinary', you said. It really wasn't, but who would I be to argue? Classical, methodical, meticulous… That day was just like the rest. Nothing whatsoever stood out to me, but how foolish was I. I miss that night" he inhaled and closed his eyes, hand still clutching at the blood stained carpet. It had all happened so long ago, in his eyes. The call, the police lights flashing blue and red, the Inspector's grey-blue eyes desperately scanning the scene, and most importantly the point. His point. Making his point.

"You."

The man reached into his cloak's pocket and grinned solemnly. He pulled out a single, small white coffee cup. Or teacup, rather. He brought it up to his nose and smelled the lingering smell of tea and sugar. His fingers ran over its smooth surface and along the handle. Caressing it tenderly, he set it down and placed a packet of tea and two sugars into it, placing it on the very spot he admired so much.

Standing up and walking slowly back to the window, he perched himself on the sill and glanced back at the solitary white cup.

"My last gift to you. Hopefully this one is better than the last I made for you. And no poisons, this time. My work is far from over, and I don't know if you'll ever know. Just… don't stop believing in me."

And with those final words the solemn phantom disappeared back into the arms of London's black night.


End file.
